TwentySomethings
by Honour Society
Summary: in life, you make choices. you live your dreams. or you don't. you fall in love. and sometimes, you fall through the cracks. but there's nothing better than finally waking up. main pairings: cassie and closh.
1. teaser trailer: The Troubled Lives Of

**Author's Note: **This is just an introduction. Tell me what you think in a review? Btw, does anyone have Kristen or Dylan pairing ideas?? The main pairings are Closh and Cassie, but there will be minor pairings. I just haven't decided on guys for Kristen or Dylan. Ideas?

**Disclaimer: **This is so toe-dally, lyke, Lisi Harrison so I don't know why stupid FF is making write a disclaimer.

**-the troubled lives of- **

**TwentySomethings**

-A Story Written By Honour Society-

**teaser trailer. the troubled lives of... **

_in life, you make choices. _

Massie Block looks up through her ultra-long lashes. "I've been waiting," she purrs.

_you live your dreams. _

Kristen Gregory, smiling and pretty, nods politely and mumbles, "Thank you," as she accepts a diploma. She looks suspiciously young.

_or you don't. _

Dylan Marvil points her finger angrily at a headset-wearing PA. She's obviously drunk. And unhappy. "You st-stupid, unreliable-"

_you fall in love. _

Alicia Rivera sits on a micro suede couch. A handsome Spanish man, dressed casually, comes up behind her and kisses her forehead.

_and sometimes, you fall through the cracks. _

Twelve-year-old Claire Lyons lies on a white stretcher, wires and tubes hooked up to her body. A frantic nuse pushes her through the hospital halls.

_but there's nothing better than finally waking up. _

Now twenty-two years old, Claire's ice blue eyes pop open.

She sharply inhales.

_unless you find out you're a TwentySomething. _


	2. one: TwentySomethings

**a/n: **i really should not be starting a new clique fic. or _any _new fic. but this idea has been in my head forever and some people seem to like it...

**background info: **this story follows canon to a certain degree. up until about "revenge of the wannabes." that means that claire isn't really an 'accepted' or 'official' member of the pretty committee, but they don't hate each other. she's dating cam, but massie is still hung up on him. also, alicia did her whole revolt thing, but she was allowed back into the pc. got it?

**chapter one. twentysomethings.**

**--**

_**"Technically, (s)he's **out** of the **coma**." **_

**- Amy Stockton**

**--**

-flashback: claire lyons, age twelve-

Not for the last time and certainly not the first, Claire Lyons wished she was back home in Orlando, Florida, where the sun shone brighter and the girls were far less complicated. Unfortunately for her, neither Jay nor Judi had budged an inch on the issue of relocating. When she pushed them about purchasing their own house - or, hey, even renting a nice little apartment, maybe at Brickview, where Kristen Gregory lived? - the chubby pair merely bristled and told her to watch her tongue.

The petite blonde rested her chin in her hands. Almost longingly, she looked out the window of the Blocks' guest house. Her eyes swooped past Todd's long ago forgotten cherry red ten-speed bike, the manicured hedges sectioning off the main house, a pale purple diamond-encrusted clip floating in a puddle of April mud. It was probably Massie Block's. Even though it obviously cost more than Claire's entire birthday and holiday savings, the amber-eyed beauty hadn't even noticed it's absence, Claire bet.

She sighed heavily and shifted her weight. Claire was currently sitting at the kitchen table, which had a perfect view of all the goings-on outside. It was a favourite pastime of hers to watch the underpaid "hired help," as Massie kindly put it, go about their work. It reminded her that no matter how many times the queen bitch criticised her outfit or sneered at her blunt bangs, she was still better off than some people.

It was around eleven o'clock on a Sunday afternoon. Claire's homework was splayed out on the small, four-person table. Her beginner's algebra meshed with her grammar work to create an interesting display. About an hour ago, Claire had found that she was terrible with grammar. The math work was finished with considerable ease - it was, without a doubt, her best subject. On occasion, Massie even IM-ed Claire a quick question about pentagons and hexagons and other "agons."

The icy-eyed girl glanced down at her pale pink Timex. The plastic was low-quality and the hands were twelve seconds slow, but it still worked. The ticking was a dull, hushed sound. If she focused on it - listened to it for too long - it gave her a mini migraine. Using her mathematics skills, she subtracted twelve seconds to the time shown and deduced that it was precisely eleven twenty-two.

It was precisely eleven twenty-two when the heart of Claire Stacey Lyons, age twelve and three-quarters, broke into two, distinct pieces.

All because of Massie Block.

And her stupid, reflectively glossy, 'irrestistible' lips all over Claire's boyfriend and one true love, Cameron Fisher.

One brief swipe at her blue eyes revealed that tears were, in fact, pooling at a rapid pace. She sniffed loudly and rudely.

No one was home. It was a good thing, she supposed. Although she wouldn't have minded sharing her misery. Even if it meant she'd be a prime target for Todd's flying raisin act.

Without even bothering to snap her textbooks shut or shove her notebooks back in her Limited Too messenger bag, Claire darted out of the Blocks' guest house. She pointedly avoided Cam and Massie, who were whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears. The unlikely pair wore identical dreamy smiles. They were both part of a group Claire would never really belong in. They shared great genetics and attended elite private schools in their own right. Claire would never be like them.

She sniffed back more tears. None would fall, if she had her way. Besides, Massie had taken her to Jakkob's salon yesterday. They had both gotten their makeup done and Claire refused to wipe hers' away. The subtle grey liner and the rose blusher made her natural beauty stand out. At least, that's what Jakkob's assistant, Mikael, had said. The blonde wondered if Massie had been going with Cam behind her back even then. The thought made her chest tighten and her heart crack into even more shards.

Claire nudged the kickstand of Todd's red ten-speed with the toe of her acid green Converse - Massie swore that Keds were 'toe-dally' out and that Converse was 'slightly' cooler. She swung one, Gap-jeans-clad leg over the side of the bike. Her clammy palms gripped the bike handlebars.

And she was off.

Maneuvering around the rounded driveway of the Block estate was hard enough without her blurred vision. A single tear dripped down her cheek. It left only a thin trail of brown eye makeup behind. Using her shoulder, she wiped the tear track away. It left an ugly brown stain on her off-white Hollister hoodie. She was so consumed with not crying that she didn't even see it.

She didn't see the Block's glossy black Range Rover, just back from the car wash, with Isaac at the helm.

Or maybe she just didn't care.

--

Harried nurses in cartoon-print scrubs and overzealous medical interns pushed Claire's white stretcher through the winding halls of the hospital. Technically, it was a 'private health care facility.' Jay and Judi had already been assured and reassured that the best doctors in the state worked there and that the Blocks were taking care of the cost.

Wires and tubes were hooked up to - and through - her body. A portable IV was steadily dripping clear liquid into her bloodstream. Even though she was the same girl, anyone who'd met her would've sworn up and down she seemed completely different. Her spark was missing. Her azure eyes were hidden underneath her fluttering eyelids. Every inch of her was ghostly pale and ice cold. White-blond hair was matted to her face. A particularly kind, green-eyed nursed brushed aside Claire's blunt-cut bangs.

Following behind the girl on the stretcher was a shifty-eyed Cam, a white-knuckled Massie, Isaac, who held his head in his hands, and Jay and Judi Lyons.

No one was smiling.

Tears stung at many eyes - just like they had with Claire, less than five minutes ago.

In a moment, everything had changed.

"I'm sorry," the green-eyed nurse said, holding her palm out. "Hospital personnel only."

--

-present day: claire lyons, age twenty-two-

The year was 2018. The month? August. The day? Second. The time? Two-oh-seven in the AM. In that exact moment, Claire Stacey Lyons, awoke from a deep slumber. She had dreamt mostly senseless, incoherent dreams. A blur of pictures, words, faces, apologies. Two appeared more than others. Cam. Massie. And Cam and Massie, _together._

Her ice-blue eyes popped open.

She sharply inhaled.

A loud, buzzer-type sound went off. The sound of sneakers squeaking on marble floors entered Claire's ears. Bleary-eyed nurses, sleepy interns and a single, white coat-wearing doctor entered the room. All of them wore near-identical expressions of surprise.

Long ago - ten years to be exact - everyone had lost hope of her ever reentering the realm of reality. Even her parents had given up after facing the courts - and losing. They had unsuccessfully tried to get a cool million dollars from the Block family and Isaac - suing for emotional damage. No respected lawyer was stupid enough to battle the high-powered Blocks, so the Lyons family had been stuck with a bumbling, court-appointed idiot.

Needless to say, they lost everything.

Including their friendship with Kendra and William Block.

"Hello, Claire," a soft voice said. Claire's blue eyes searched the wide, discerning brown ones of the doctor. He half-smiled. She winced in pain - his facial expression reminded her all too much of one Massie Block.

"H-hellooo," she croaked. Her voice was worn-out and hoarse. Everything felt new. She could still remember simple actions - walking, talking, eating, all of it. She could even remember her old life.

"Welcome to the year twenty-eighteen."


	3. two: The Other Side

**a/n: **i know there are many cassie haters out there, so i'm just giving this as a warning: this fic is totally, one hundred percent cassifyed. there are a couple clam moments and massie/other scattered throughout, but don't be disappointed or angry by the ending "twentysomethings" will have. (and by that i mean it will have a cassie one.)

**chapter two.** **the other side. **

**--**

_**"Thy love**_ _**is **lust, **thy **friendship **all a cheat..." **_

**- Lord Byron**

**--**

-flashback: massie block, age twelve- 

About an hour ago, she had logged onto her Gmail account and IM'ed Claire Lyons, her close friend, an algebraic equation that was _impossible. _Claire had typed up the answer in seconds and helpfully provided her work. Massie sent back a smiley emoticon and logged back off. Cam was coming over. He said he had some big news for her.

Although she'd never admit it to Claire, there was a large part of her that still carried a torch for the gorgeous soccer player with the intense eyes. After the horrible mishap with Alicia and _Teen Vogue _and New York City, Massie swore that she would stop making the petite blonde's life so miserable. And the first step to doing that was forgetting Cam's existence. Except she couldn't. Every time he sent her a text in his adorable full sentences (rather than the 'chat speak' she was so used to) or dialled her bedroom land line, she answered him. He was her addiction. She tried to give him up, but the highs were so worth it...

Massie sat on the white-quilted window seat. Her wide amber eyes surveyed the scene outside - workers scrambling like bees to complete their tasks before the stone n' steel William Block returned from his office. She averted her eyes when she saw the all-too-familiar broken-down minivan pull into the round driveway. It was Mr. and Mrs. Fisher's car. She smiled to herself and fingered the breezy cotton curtain - white, naturally - to get a better view. There they were. The Fisher boys. Harris, tall and broad-shouldered, gave Cam's shaggy-haired noggin a shake. Cam pushed him away. Their mother, a brunette with a sunny disposition, wagged her finger at them.

They all dissolved into laughter.

_I want that,_Massie thought longingly. No, she wasn't talking about Cam. Not even Harris. Definitely not Mr. Fisher. She wanted a family that wasn't perfect on the outside but was happy on the inside. The Fishers didn't drape themselves in cashmere or pearls - though they could obviously afford it. They preferred the simple things and valued inner beauty over outer perfection. Again, Massie said to herself, _I want to have that. _

Lately, Kendra seemed to care more about converting the stables into a gym-spa hybrid than she did about her own flesh and blood - her only child.

As for William? Well, they certainly weren't as close as they once were. His mantra of late seemed to be "in a minute, sweetheart." That minute never came. Eventually, William had up and hired a short, size-ten Spanish woman named Esmeralda to walk Bean bi-weekly. Massie was closer to their dog-walker than she was to her own father. It was pathetic. She knew.

Massie wished she could read lips. She desperately wanted to know if Cam was chatting to Harris about her - or Kuh-laire. Both look-alike brothers were grinning from ear-to-ear. They didn't use any exaggerated hand gestures (a finger pointed in the direction of the main house would've been welcome) so it was nearly impossible to tell.

Claire hadn't come twirling out of the guest house yet, so Massie assumed that she hadn't gotten the four-one-one on her little rendezvous with Cam. That was good. Or...was it bad? She sometimes forgot what she was supposed to feel when it came to Cam. She was supposed to _like _him - he was her best friend's boyfriend, after all. But, love?

Massie shook her head, sending a cascade of gorgeously messy dark waves to tickle her peach-blushed cheeks. She adjusted her black ribbon headband one more time and rubbed Bean's wrinkled head for good luck before exiting the iPad coolly. Deep breath. She strutted down the carpeted staircase, barefoot as per Kendra's rules.

The doorbell - a customized version of Debussy's Clair de Lune - rang just as Massie was slipping into her dyed-silk Marc Jacobs flats. Her heart panged loudly inside her chest. What was it Cam wanted to tell her?

Painted a ready smile on her face, Massie swung the door open casually. "Oh, hi, Cam," she trilled.

He waved one hand stiffly; the other stayed inside the pocket of his frayed and distressed A&F khakis. "Massie."

"Um." She was never this nervous, this awkward. And she was _definitely _never without words. She stepped aside, shifting her weight from flat to flat "Come in?"

Cam rubbed his bare arm. It was a relatively warm spring day. Even still, Massie thought his choice of ensemble was quite cute - in its own way. A black, slightly-baggy Strokes tee with the aforementioned khakis and black Converse lo-tops. The amber-eyed socialite found herself missing his signature leather jacket. Discreetly, she sniffed the air with her pert, upturned nose. A lax smile spread across her face. He still smelled like Drakkar Noir. Her Sephora-trained nose could detect the subtle notes of bergamot, lemon and rosemary.

"It's too nice a day to go inside... ...You alright, Mass?"

She felt positively giddy. He didn't try to be all 'tough guy' and call her Block, like Derrick did. 'Mass' seemed wonderful when compared to her stiff, stoic surname.

"I'm fine."

Little did she know that, ten minutes later, she'd be experiencing her first French kiss and Claire would be getting mowed over by the Range Rover.

--

"I'm sorry," a frumpy-looking nurse said, holding her palm out to block their path. "Hospital personnel only."

For once, Massie's New Yorker accent seemed to fade away. Cam awkwardly placed his long, lean arm around her quivering neck. _"Oh my God,_" the brunette wailed. Nothing seemed real. This couldn't be real. Isaac couldn't have... - it pained her to even think it - _killed _Claire, could he?

She couldn't find any words to describe how she felt. None.

A lump the size of the iceberg that tipped the Titantic was lodged inside her throat. She gulped.

"This - This," Massie muttered senslelessly. She wished she could cry as easily as Claire - it was somehow harder when you'd been taught not to feel any emotions. Tears were forbidden in the Block household - unless they got you what you want.

In that moment, she knew exactly what she wanted. It wasn't the cognac leather Prada satchel she'd seen on Net-a-Porter dot com. It wasn't even the Badgley Mischka cocktail-length dress with the extensive embroidery and multiple layers of tulle she'd drooled over at Nordstrom.

All she wanted, was for Claire to be okay and to forgive her.

--

-present day: massie block, age twenty-two- 

"Hello?" The five-foot-eight brunette answered in a brisk, professional tone. She hadn't recognized the number, so she assumed it was work-related. Lately, everything seemed to be.

"Um, yes." It was a nervous voice. Female. "This is Massie, right?"

"...Yes," she affirmed, a little freaked-out now. Some creepy stalker fan? God, she hoped not.

"Massie Block?"

"Um." Massie rolled her eyes, though no one could see her. She leaned up against the marble island in the middle of her top-of-the-line chrome kitchen. "This is her."

"Oh. That's good." The nervous woman seemed to hesitate before adding, "This is Judi Lyons. _Claire's mother._"

That was when Massie hung up the phone.

The glossy-haired girl had no contact whatsoever with Todd, Judi or Jay. Claire was still in a coma, toiling away in a hospital bed paid for by William.

Massie let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Judi. Judi Lyons. _Claire's mom. _It was impossible to believe. It was even harder to believe that a woman who tried to pull one million dollars out of her father's pocket would even dare calling her. Since middle school, the Alpha had changed. A lot. Some things, of course, had stayed the same. She still counted Alicia as her number two and Cam as her loverboy. She hadn't spoken to - or seen - Kristen and Dylan since Claire's accident. They both took the Lyons' side, blaming Isaac and Massie's parents for hiring him. When Massie insisted _Claire _had been at fault, the 'other' blonde and the fiery redhead quit the PC. Alicia believed Massie.

Alicia would quite possibly believe Massie if the brunette said that the world was ending tomorrow.

Her pale yellow-manicured nails glistened as the light through the summer-weight cotton curtains hit them at just the right angle. Massie's head whipped around when she heard the telltale sound of keys clicking into a lock.

"Cam!"

--

**I've gotten a lot more chapters written, so I should have fairly regular updates for a while. One day, I just sat down, wrote up a page-long summary along with the first seven or so chapters. After that though, there will be larger gaps between updates, but, remember - **

**reviews make me write faster! -totally not lying-**


	4. three: Broken Things

**a/n: I** **have no clue if anyone actually reads these things, but, if someone does, I've decided to gab a bit about why I decided to write this fic.**

for one, i have a deep fascination with comas and vegetative states. who knows why? i've just always found it intriguing that, with a certain amount of brain damage, you could just go to sleep peacefully and wake up when everyone's moved on and forgotten about you.

also, i noticed that there are a lot of futurefics going on in this fandom. usually, when the pc is in their twentysomethings. most of the time, claire is a movie star, massie runs a magazine, alicia is a model and dylan and kristen have fallen off the side of the earth. i decided to put my own spin on it.

**background information: **alicia and josh never dated. sure, she had a crush on him but things changed after claire's accident...

**chapter three. broken things.**

**--**

_**"Marriage is a** wonderful institution**...but who wants to live an institution?"** _

**_- _Groucho Marx**

**--**

Alicia Martinez folded her impeccably manicured hands in her lap and told herself that everything was alright. _Perfect, _in fact. She'd long since ditched the Rivera name for that of her film director husband, Luis Martinez. He was quite famous in Spain for directing a series of cult horror films. Now, an American movie mogul was interested in turning the hit films into English-language masterpieces. Although Alicia was over the moon with pride for her ruggedly handsome husband, it would be a lie to say she wasn't seriously pissed off that he was late for dinner. _Once again. _

A uniform-wearing maid with her fine blond hair in a migraine-inducing bun scurried over to the upset woman with a silver platter. Inside was probably the latest delicacy made by the Martinez's macrobiotic chef. Only Jorge, their chef, could make raw food taste so good. Despite Alicia being the _numero uno_ dance teacher in Beverly Hills and instructor to the stars, she still kept to a strict diet. There was no way she'd lose her place as the unofficial holder of the 'Hollywood's Best Abs' award.

She politely declined the platter with a wane smile and a wave of her blood-red nails. "No thank you, Elsa."

The blonde nodded curtly once and headed back towards the kitchen, platter still in hand, on the low heels of her orthopedic shoes.

Alicia looked away from Elsa's monstrous shoes and down at her own - red silk pumps, open-toed. Bought for her by Luis. She missed him so. With a sigh, the five-foot-five beauty got up from the twelve-person dining table and mechanically made a quick lap around the house. Of course, it wasn't _that _quick. She was a notorious slow-walker, especially in two-inch heels.

The rest of her outfit was sublime, as well. A cream brocade bolero over a skintight, knee-length rose red dress. Her dark hair had been curled that morning; set into perfect yet casual ringlets, which she'd tucked into a loose updo. Several wisps had come undone and fell around her face _just so. _On the outside, she was perfection. On the inside, she was an ugly, mottled, broken thing.

She tried to keep the fairytale going. There was life after the 'Happily Ever After,' right? There would be happiness after dating, falling in love, moving in and finally saying "I do." She was sure of it. Alicia was sure of it when she put on the custom-fitted Monique Lhuillier and walked down the long isle into Luis' waiting embrace. But now, she wasn't quite so positive.

Alicia had always wanted children of her own. Twin girls and a boy. Their family of five would be perfect. Luis would make a wonderful father and Alicia would finally quit her job at the dance studio to be a stay-at-home - but never dowdy or homely - mom.

When their relationship was starting to get serious, Luis expressed desire for children, as well. He wanted a son, to be named in his father's honour. Alicia could deal with that. Fernando wasn't such a terrible name.

Except once their marriage was finalized, the ink dried on the licenses, Luis seemed to disappear. He was always at work, checking and re-checking screenplays. Flipping through the resumes of actors and actresses on IMDB for his perfect leading man and lady. She barely saw him enough to ask how his work was going, let alone bring up the subject of children. Furthermore, he hadn't touched her in three months.

Alicia paused when she came to the living room. Several glossy photos sat atop an antique Chippendale desk in silver frames. One, in particular, stood out to her. It was all of them, the infamous Pretty Committee, during better days. It had been taken during one of Massie's Friday night sleepovers. Massie was front and center - as per usual - and wore her signature half-smile and crushed silk pyjamas. Her dark hair was pushed over one shoulder and she leaned towards the camera on her elbows. Alicia sat, legs crossed, beside her. The 'Spanish beauty's' grin seemed more sultry than the Alpha's - even at the tender age of twelve. Kristen and Dylan were beside each other, their legs hidden inside purple sleeping bags. Kristen looked mischievous, Dylan looked goofy.

And then there was Claire.

It had been her first sleepover as a GLU.

Silly thing had worn a faded cotton nightgown with Tinkerbell printed on it. The slim-boned blonde looked like such an outsider - especially with her hesitant, closed-mouth 'smile' - that it seemed impossible to believe that Kristen and Dylan would take _her side _rather than Massie's.

Oh, well. Alicia smiled sadly at the pushed-aside memories. Times certainly had changed.

--

Even though his NYY cap was suspiciously absent from his head, Joshua Hotz still had the same piercing brown eyes, caramel skin tone, close-cropped dark hair and low-maintenance disposition as his seventh-grade self. He was a lawyer now. Who specialized in criminal defense. He was known around New York City as the go-to lawyer for death row inmates and other criminals with serious crimes stacked up. There was something that set him apart from the jury-swaying scum bags who mostly worked in his field - he only took cases that he believed in. If he didn't believe someone was innocent, why should a jury? It was that type of thinking that made him somewhat of a local hero.

"Joshieeee," his younger sister, Lauren, whined into his cell phone. Josh cringed at the hated nickname; he artfully dodged a suit-wearing businesswoman as he navigated the city streets. "When are you coming home? It's completely boring around here without you." Lauren was only eighteen - four years younger than him - and was currently a senior at a private high school in Westchester County.

Josh didn't miss that stupid, effed-up city - or its snooty inhabitants - one bit. He did, however, miss his sister. Especially her talent with cleaning. His apartment on the Lower East Side was a mess. Pure and simple. A little Lauren Hotz power - particularly in regards to laundry and dish-washing - would've been welcomed with open arms.

"Soon as I can, Laur." He smiled slightly at his use of her nickname. Lauren was a straight-A student whose silly side only came out when she was with him. Lately, Lauren had been calling nonstop to complain about the pressures of being picked twelfth grade valedictorian and blah blah blah blah. "I'm working a-"

"I know, I know. 'A huge case.' I understand. It's just - I miss you, Josh." A beat. "Even all the torturous cleaning you put me through. That area under your bed? Yeah, that's just nasty."

Josh and Lauren continued to make smalltalk, idle chatter until the successful lawyer finally hailed a taxi. He loved how iconic the yellow cabs were. Even if you'd neevr been to New York, you knew about the taxis.

"So," Lauren finally said. Her tone was different. He could tell their whole conversation had been building up to this. "How would you like to hear the latest gossip around town?"

"Um, not at all?"

"Whatever... Your loss. It involves one Claire Lyons..."

Josh practically dropped the phone like it was a red-hot frying pan. "Holy... Claire? You mean... What happened to her? Is she okay?"

"Chill, chill, Mr. Lawyer Man." He could almost feel Lauren rolling her sparkling blue eyes. "She's fine. Better than fine, in fact. Claire freaking Lyons is..._awake._"

And that was when everything changed.

"Driver, how fast can you get to Westchester?"

--

**Ha. Hints of Closh for people who were getting impatient. Josh's sister plays a fair part in 20S, so... yeah. Remember her. **

**Um, one more thing (i know my author's notes were kinda of long and annoying in this chapter, sry) VOTE IN THE POLL ON MY PROFILE PRETTY PLEASE WITH MAPLE SYRUP ON TOP!**


	5. four: Little Mermaids

**a/n: **dylan is the only one who uses PC speak. i.e. "ah-mazing," "nawt," etc...

**chapter four. little mermaids.**

**--**

_**"Handled creatively, **getting fired **allows an executive to actually experience a sense of relief that she never wanted the job she has lost." **_

**_- _Frank P. Louchheim **

**--**

-flashback: dylan marvil, age twelve- 

She flipped over on her back and allowed her Ariel-in-_Little Mermaid_-esque red hair to form a pillow around her face. Dylan Marvil smiled happily. Everyone she loved, all her closest friends, were there. Maybe everything would be alright after all.

River, her oldest sister at eighteen, was heading off to college. Dartmouth, to be exact. She was supposedly majoring in some smart-people subject like Comparative Literature, but none of the Marvil clan was all that good at making decisions. River would probably call home tomorrow to say she was switching to Cognitive Science.

Dylan missed River. None of the Pretty Committee girls would understand. None of them had brothers or sisters. They were all perfect only children who chortled nervously when their rich-rich-rich parents gave funny monologues about "hitting the nail on the head the first time around."

What about Claire? Dylan closed her eyes, shielding her gorgeous emerald orbs from the harsh lighting in the iPad and only pretended to listen to the shallow conversation of her friends. She couldn't hear Kristen or Claire adding anything to the current topic - Skinny jeans: Flattering or Fuglying? - and suspected that the former was leafing through _Scientific American _or something. What about Claire? What was she doing? Did she aw-nestly care about the pros and cons of skinny jeans? Or maybe it was the bright glow of popularity that drew her in, like a fly.

"Claire," Dylan said the blonde's name quietly, like it was a swear word. "Do you ever miss Todd?"

Upon opening her eyes, Dylan discovered Massie and Alicia still chatting on and on and on. Kristen, was, in fact, reading. It wasn't a magazine, though. It was a tattered and torn copy of _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_ that appeared to have been through some kind of war.

The new girl made a face, then blushed scarlet from the tip of her unblemished chin to her hairline. "Sometimes. Like, when he's at sleep away camp or I'm staying with my grandparents or something. Is that completely lame?"

She looked hopeful.

The goofy redhead cracked a wide grin - her own little signature. "Absolutely nawt."

That was when Kendra Block's delicate fingertips lightly tapped against the - believe it or nawt - white door to the iPad. "It's me, Massie."

"Enter," Massie announced in her usual bored, couldn't-care-less-and-aren't-parents-awful? tone.

"Time for a photo op!" Kendra called, not to loudly because her voice therapist advised against it. The lithe brunette lookalike of Massie - only with harsh blue eyes rather than unforgiving amber ones - stepped hesitantly into the all-white room. She wore a calf-length DVF wrap dress that Dylan swore she owned. Kendra probably looked way better in it, too, the redhead thought sourly.

"Mo-om." Their Alpha gave the pearls-wearing mother The Look. "We're tuh-rying to have a dicussion here."

"Pish-posh." Yes, she actually said that. "You can continue in a minute, this will hardly take a millennium."

"Fine," Massie huffed and crossed her arms over her silk PJ set.

"Smile."

And the moment was saved forever.

Massie's half-smile. Alicia's 'sexy' eyes. Dylan's Creamsicle-orange tongue stuck through her glossy lips. Claire's far-away expression. A bulge under Kristen's sleeping bag that was Thomas Hardy's greatest work. In her opinion, at least.

Dylan never received her copy of the photo. Because, not too long after the fact, Claire had her accident and the PC broke up.

--

-present day: dylan marvil, age twenty-two-

Everything blurred together. The whole world was just one mess of colours and shapes, all mixed in. The stray curls from Dylan's bun were just red spiral-shaped smudges. Her eyes were two distinct bottle green smudges. Everything, everything, everything was a blur.

The redhead and reality TV darling rocked back and forth on the chunky heels of her Betsey Johnson pumps. "Thi - This can_nawt _b- be right!" she crowed, the tequila and mysterious white pills making her words blur along with the rest of the world. "Do you even know who I am?" she asked slowly, making sure each syllable sounded perfect.

The P.A. - short for personal assistant - shook her head ruefully. She looked down to her simple charcoal grey loafers. "Yes, we do. Dylan Marvil..."

Dylan could've swore she heard an "_Unfortunately_" tacked on to the end.

"That's rrriight," she mumbled, wiping her eyes and getting gunmetal grey shadow on her fingertips in the process.

Appearance wise, the redhead looked like a hot mess. Her body was bangin' - if not a little too curvy to be featured in _Us Weekly_'s Anorexia Watch, which was every young starlet's dream, whether she did have an eating disorder or nawt. Dylan's figure was on show in a skintight black mini - courtesy of a designer whose name she couldn't recall. Heavy jewellery dripped from every available surface - ears, neck, ankles and wrists. She wore a custom-made charm bracelet as a little jab at the great Massie Block and even had one a topaz-and-gold belt hanging around her hips.

Dylan's signature flame-red hair had long since faded to a manageable copper colour - her colourist, Mandi, still helpfully added Ronald McDonald streaks to the mangy mane during her bi-weekly jaunts to a so-chic-it-doesn't-have-a-name salon in the Village. It certainly was a gem of a place. Half-hidden by leafy trees - with black fences around them, of course - and just a tad too far out of the 'uptown' zone for big name socialites to stop by, it was the perfect place to go when you wanted a blow out without the prying eyes of the stalkerazzi.

"Dylan." The P.A.'s cloudy grey eyes were no-nonsense. Completely serious. "Do you understand what I'm saying?" she asked, part quietly, part compassionately.

Her copper curls spun in fast circles around her face. She nodded. "Uh-huh, but-" A sniff interrupted her monologue. "I - I just can't believe this would happen...to me!"

The P.A. looked down to the mushroom-and-shell-pink marble tiling. "It is quite hard to believe. You're a ratings miracle, Dyl. You're usually upbeat, fun, a real good-times, easy-going girl." The P.A.'s corn silk blond ponytail fluttered against her makeup-free cheeks as she spoke. "But...you need help. Sometimes, you're a complete - no way around - brat. You think that just spitting out your last name will get you what you want. Newsflash: it won't."

Her mouth - melting lip-gloss and all - popped open.

This could _nawt _be happening!

She couldn't be fired from her _own show_! It was impossible. '_Merilee's Spawn_' was the hyper-popular spin-off reality TV show of the _Real World_-but-with-famous-kids '_Celebrity Spawn_.' Every person under twenty-five was glued to their television on Monday nights, from ten to eleven, to watch the crazy antics and drama of Dylan Avery Marvil.

"Who's, uh..." Dylan shyly brushed some red-gold strands away from her shocking emerald eyes. She was quite gorgeous, excluding the current drugged stupor and messy makeup. "Who's gonna replace me?"

"Your sisters, Dyl." The P.A. - whose name Dylan was desperately trying to remember - bit her Vaseline'd lips. "River, Tess and Cameron." Nervously, the P.A. added, "Or have all those pills you've been popping made you forget about them?"

Dylan set her jaw. Hard.

"They. Can. _Nawt. _Do. This. To! ME!" She yelled as loud as she could. The P.A. didn't seem surprised, upset or put-off. She merely shrugged her shoulders, gave Dylan an unreadable look and headed out the door.

The (former) reality star's fist made contact with the wall. That was when security was called. Just like on TV and in the movies, two burly, broad-shouldered, bald men in tight black T-shirts and black cords carried her towards the exit - kicking and screaming.

And a camera crew was there to capture it all.


	6. five: Gone and Forgotten

**author's note: **Omigod. Kristen is so flipping hard to write. Maybe I should have get bitten by a radioactive spider or something. I gave her a pretty interesting backstory - a lot more drama-filled than even Massie's - but I'm still not quite happy with it.

**chapter five. gone and forgotten. **

**--**

_**"Girls have an unfair **advantage** over men: if they can't get what they want by being **smart, **they can get it by being dumb." **_

**_- _Yul Brynner **

**--**

-present day: kristen gregory, age twenty-two-

Navy blue eyes surveyed the customers overtop of a tattered paperback copy of _Tess Of The D'Urbervilles _that looked like it had gone through certain death, the fire pits of hell, and World War III all to get to this very Starbucks coffee shop in Massachusetts. It was the choice haunts of MIT students and the studious-looking patrons made clear of that.

Kristen Gregory was a people-watcher. By nature, through practice. Somehow, someway, it made her smile to see the yummy mummy-type coo sweet nothings at her three-month-old dressed in trendy baby gear. She almost frowned at the sight of a high-powered businesswoman - hair perfect, outfit perfect, face perfect - ordering a double-tall, no-foam, blah blah blah in her New Yorker accent.

New York.

The trim and toned blonde bit her lip, forcing herself to pay attention to the situation at hand - Tess and her newborn son named Sorrow. It was killed her to get to this part of the book. The first time she read it, she was ten-going-on-eleven and only picked up the blue-spined novel because her librarian mother, Mary Kathryn, insisted she start reading the classics. No more _Gossip Girl_s for her.

Kristen forced herself to return to Tess' messed-up world. For once, it was nice to have someone's life suck more than her own. Her long, unpainted fingernails took a death grip on her skinny latte. On a diet she was not, but the Venti cups full of sugar and calories still gave her Massie-induced goosebumps.

_Massie. _She took a long gulp of her piping-hot coffee, burning her tongue. Kristen winced in pain, but the burn was forgotten. Massie Block. Oh, joy. Kristen adjusted the sleeves of her boyfriend-sized Boston U sweatshirt. Yeah, she was a proud MIT grad, and, yeah, she was on - unofficial - Massachusetts Institute of Technology territory but the memory of her ex-fiance, Bryce, stuck to her heart like a piece of gum on a Prada heel.

A small, yet sad smile tugged on the corners of her lips.

Once upon a time, Kristen had been happily engaged to a guy she maybe-sorta loved. Named Bryce Rosen. Even then, she knew she didn't sound anywhere near as 'happy' as Bryce, Mary Kathryn, and her scorned art dealer father turned divorcee, Karl, were about the upcoming nuptials.

She had been engaged to Bryce since freshman year of college - after meeting him through the National Merit Scholars program. They were the ideal couple. Good looks, great brains, sunny dispositions. Everyone swore their kids - _eek, kids_- would be the lucky winners of the genetic lottery. Kristen couldn't help agreeing. Bryce was quite cute - in his own, adorkable way.

Kristen sighed. _Just forget about it, _she told herself.

Miss New York was now impatiently tapping her round-toed heels to the beat of a Coldplay song blaring through her earbuds. In her manicured hands, she was getting major thumb exercise over the keypad of her Chocolate phone.

New York smirked at the blindingly small screen of her phone. A dour-faced barista plopped her drink on the table and stumbled through New York's exact specifications.

The hot-to-trot woman with the New Yorker accent reminded Kristen of someone.

An outfit-rating, dog-loving, side-bangs-sweeping someone.

Even though she hated Massie for blaming Claire for her accident (what the hell? How could a doe-eyed, angelic, naive new girl be at fault for riding in front of THE BLOCKS' Range Rover after catching the weirdly-dubbed 'Cassie' macking against a brick wall?), Kristen couldn't help but see herself through the Alpha's striking amber eyes.

Baggy sweatshirt. Frayed cutoff jeans with mystery stain on pocket. Ratty ponytail, hair overdue for a blow out. No makeup - okay, save for a dab of Lancome Juicy Tubes in Pink Fishnets and a swipe of BADgal Lash Mascara. American Eagle faux-leather flip-flops from last summer.

To put it simply, she was an L. B. Uppercase 'R.'

Within seconds, the coffee cup was drained.

Once Bryce found out about Kristen's little secret, he had called the wedding off faster than you can say "This one time at soccer camp..."

--

-flashback: the pretty committee, all age twelve-

The atmosphere of the Range Rover was tense to say the least. Usually, the four members of the PC (plus Claire, who wasn't a full-fledged GLU yet) were all squished together on one side, sharing Glossip Girls, tugging on half-ponytails, commenting on eyebrows that needed some TLC from Svetlana. They were all one single entity - a colourful blur.

Not today.

Massie and Alicia kept their heads ducked down while the gossip queen served the latest dish - Saylene Homer was dating one of the lesser-known soccer studs? The glossy brunette and the Spanish beauty moved and spoke in unison. They didn't raise their voices so Kristen or Dylan could hear what earned Alicia one hundred and twenty-two gossip points.

They didn't care.

Kristen and Dylan sat on the other side of the limo, facing the Alpha-Beta pair. Kristen and Dylan both wore old Juicy sweats. Dylan's hair was wild and curly; Kristen's flat, dull and greasy.

They didn't care.

Claire was gone - spending her days in the dying people's ward of Octavian Country Medical Centre. What did it matter that neither girl was wearing a look pulled off the catwalk? Why did it matter so much that Sage, the pro-veggie eighth-grader who ran her own smoothie shop on campus, was moving to the alt-education school where they didn't have grades or desks?

Kristen crossed her arms over her chest; stuck her ski-slope nose in the air. Dylan copied.

Massie began to scowl. "Guh-urls, guh-urls. If you're going to be such ah-noying female dawgs, feel free to exit this carpool in a timely manner. Oh-kay?"

The redhead-blonde pair exchanged a look.

"Oh-kay," the said at the exact same time. Alicia was so surprised that her fingers slipped and Massie's Orange Tango gloss left a fin-shaped line across her collarbone.

"WHAT?" Massie's lower lip began to quiver. No one - not even herself - could tell if it was with fear or sadness. "You leave," she sniffed, echoing the wise words of Heidi Montag she remembered from an old episode of _The Hills. _"You don't come back."

"Fine."

"Sounds good to me."

"Then go." The Alpha pointed towards the tinted window. "Isaac! Halt the vehicle!"

Kristen and Dylan were left standing on the corner of the road, leading up to Abner Double Day. Their lips were still pursed, arms still cross, posture still unwelcoming. It was raining. Isaac repeatedly asking the now-duo if he should go back and get them - surely this stupid fight would pass, right? Wrong.

--

-present day: joshua hotz, age twenty-two-

"You know this ride cost you a shitload of cashola, right, man?" the cab driver with an unidentifiable accent drawled. From the backside, Josh locked eyes with the cabbie. He nodded twice, slowly. He understood. Money didn't mean anything to him - especially not when Claire, _oh my god, Claire,_ was awake. Awake. It was the best word he'd ever heard.

"I know," Josh answered, on the off chance that nods weren't universal. "It's worth every fricking penny, though."

The cabbie smiled widely, showing off teeth so yellow, so crooked and so horribly spaced, they made dentists everywhere cry into their pints of Cherry Garcia. "_What's her name?_"

"Claire." Josh grinned. "I've got to go." He handed the yellow-toothed man a thick stack of green, a cobalt blue rubber band kept each bill together. "It's all there."

Yellow Teeth looked suspicious.

"I swear on her life, it's all there."

Yellow Teeth nodded, tipped his hat - _my god, how cliche - _and mumbled a quick thankyouandgoodbyesir.

That was when Lauren Hotz came tumbling out of the Hotz home, curly hair the colour of chocolate flying in the wind. She was dressed in a rather...risque fashion: lavender tank top that was a little too tight for his liking, white eyelet short-shorts that were actually pyjamas and a pair of caramel Uggs. Bizarre combo for August.

"That her?" Yellow Teeth asked with another wide grin.

Josh shook his head ardently. "No, that's my sister, pal."

Yellow Teeth paled. He couldn't have peeled out of there fast enough.

"JOSH!" Lauren wrapped her arms around his neck and started jumping up and down. Dramatically, she tore herself away from him and placed a hand on her forehead. She feigned a knee-weakening. "Oh, it's been soooo looongg..."

"I see you're still a drama queen." He smiled, gave his little sister another half-hug and started walking up the stone steps leading up to the house.

"Wait." She looked nervous. "There's something I have to tell you, Joshie. I was gonna tell you over the phone, but you hung up so quickly..." Her voice trailed off.

"What? What is it?"

"I'm pregnant."


	7. six: Over the Phone

**author's note: **yeah, this chapter is verging on the territory of 'making no sense whatsover' but there's another a/n at the end to explain it some more.

**chapter six. over the phone. **

**--**

**"**_**What a lot we lost when we stopped writing letters. You can't **reread **a **phone call**." **_

**- Liz Carpenter **

**--**

"Cam." Her arms locked into place after he swung her legs up around his hips. The perfect couple. Even if no one else thought so. Even if the Blocks swore their daughter "_deserved_" better, even if the Fishers believed Massie was a cold-hearted bitch, even if Alicia thought Cam was weird, even if, even if, even if.

"Let's get married, Mass," he said, seemingly out of the blue. She opened her mouth to protest, but he blocked her with a well-placed finger right over her lips. She looked up at him, amber eyes cool. "No more excuses this time. Let's just..._elope._"

"No way, Cameron Fisher." Massie tilted her head so she could stare at him some more. God, he was just so...perfect. So gorgeous, so brilliant, so nice, so happy. "There is no way I - we can miss that much work. If you're going to marry me, we're doing it The Block Way. White dress, fancy church, mini quiches..."

"Ugh." He shuddered slightly, but his grin never left his face. "Fine."

"Fine," she repeated.

The phone rang again.

"Stupid phone." Cam grabbed the phone and cradled it in the crook of his neck. A pregnant pause. "This is Cam. Cam Fisher. Who is this?"

--

"I'll only tell if you promise not to hang up like everyone before," the patient, careful female voice stated. Alicia Martinez pulled open the cabinet door and used her slim hip to keep it steady. After producing a silver spoon from their second-best china set and sticking it in her mouth, she agreed to the promise.

--

"I'm Judi Lyons. Of the Orlando Lyons'. I'm also Claire and Todd's mom."

"Oh." Kristen's face went through a series of emotions at rapid-pace. She felt like one of those videos they had to watch in sixth-grade Science, about photosynthesis. In particular, she felt like "Part II," where an Australian-accented narrator talked in length about glucose while a flower bloomed in a few fast-forwarded seconds on screen. Her emotions only lasted for several seconds and in short bursts: surprise, anger, sadness, glee...

"Wow."

Judi laughed bitterly. "Words can't begin to explain how glad I am that you said that. You're the first one who hasn't hung up on me. Alicia, Massie, even _Cam _after I tried calling her back - Did you know they're still dating?" Kristen was about to respond with a surprised "No," but Judi beat her to the punch. "Anyways, there's some big news about Claire..."

--

"Oh, God, Dad." Todd Lyons ran a hand through his already tousled scarlet hair. "She's not..." He gulped. "Dead, is she?"

"No. No, definitely not. It's, well - The opposite, really. She's more alive now than she's been since the seventh grade."

The twenty-year-old rubbed his hands together, balancing the cheap plastic phone on his bony shoulder. He hadn't seen his parents in... - God, how long had it been? - _years_. He missed them. They refused to come to Illinois to visit him, insisting they were quite comfortable spending the rest of their days in baggy Mickey Mouse tees and Old Navy Bermuda shorts.

"You can't mean... Claire's awake?"

"Yes, son. If only you weren't...all tangled up in things. She would love to see you."

"I'd love to see her, too, but..." He sighed. "That's really not an option for me."

The wrinkled navy jumpsuit sagged as he adjusted his - rather terrible - posture. "Seeing as I'm in prison."

--

"Yes, I can see how that would make things a bit...difficult." The voice hesitated, took a breath.

"'_Difficult_!'" Dylan tugged on her split-ends, accidentally pulling a few fine red hairs out. They appeared auburn in the sunlight and she was momentarily sidetracked until she remembered... "MOOOOOOM! I can_nawt _believe you would let this happen to me. I have nowhere to go. Nowhere! And giving Riv, Cam, and Tessie _my show_? That's a horrible thing to do, you, you -"

"Bitch?" Merilee finished. If the _Daily Grind _host had been at Dylan's loft, rather than at the cushy Estate in upstate New York, Dylan might have punched her. Because she sounded absolutely..._bitchy. _

"_Yesss! _Ugh... I am so fuh-rustrated."

"Pickles, dear. How about I make you a little..." Her professionally-trained voice trailed off she searched for 'the perfect word.'

"Proposition?" supplied the natural redhead.

"Proposition," agreed Merilee. "If you move back into the Estate, you can co-star on the show with your sisters. It'll be great for PR and, as a coo, you can stay in your old room, chat with your old friends... It's a win-win ratings ploy!"

--

_"You've got yourself a deal."_

_"I'll be over in twen-"_

_"Make that ten."_

_"Fine then. Ten minutes."_

--

Claire's raw, red fingers twirled over the finger-pad of her new iPod Nano. It was supposedly "eight gigs," - whatever that meant - and an ice-blue colour; almost the exact shade of her own eyes. She was unsure who the iPod was from - it came with a note, but just said "_i'm so glad your awake, claire_._ more_ _people miss u, than u know. -D." _There were probably millions of people with the initial of "D."

But there was one who stood out.

Derrington?

Could it be?

Did those teases in Health class, those starethenlookawaysuperfast in the Cafe mean something?

Something more?

Did they?

So many questions, and no one to answer them.

Knock knock.

"Can I come in Claire-Bear? I brought you lunch."

"Sure, Mommy," Claire croaked. She found a nervous smile creeping its way across her face. When she realized what she had said, she clammed up. 'Mommy?' How old was she, four? No, she was twel- Oh. Except she wasn't. _I'm Claire Stacey Lyons and I'm twenty-two years old. _It sounded wrong, even to herself.

The door to Claire's private room opened with a creak. Judi, wearing her signature baggy sweatshirt in an unassuming shade of pink, walked in on eggshells. She seemed almost more nervous than her daughter, if that was even possible. The middle-aged woman carried with her a white imitation leather bag - from Sears, Claire guessed - and a simple tray of cafeteria food.

Claire felt like she was back at OCD. "Thanks."

"Oh, it's no problem at all, Clair Bear." Judi approached her daughter's bedside tentatively and placed the tray gently on Claire's lap. The younger woman smiled delicately. Judi sighed and pushed Claire's over-grown bangs away from her striking blue eyes. "You're so beautiful. So lovely..."

"Um." The hospital gown-clad girl bit her bottom lip. "Thank you?" she said like it was a question. Using a plastic spork, she dragged the mystery meat of the day around her paper plate in a perfect circle. Along with meat that could've been pork, beef or chicken - it was anyone's guess - there were some lumpy mashed potatoes, dried-out green beans and two chocolate chip cookies from Mrs. Field's, still in the wrappers.

Judi didn't reply, but merely continued to stroke her eldest child's hair. She hadn't been to visit Claire in years. For a good five years after the accident, Jay and Judi were in the hospital every day, talking to her, playing songs they couldn't name but Ryan Secreast played them on his radio station so they assumed they were 'cool.' After that, when the doctors began to resent Claire and the reporters stopped wanting to interview the 'parents of coma girl,' the Lyons family moved back to Florida.

With the notable exception of Todd.

He had been shuffled from juvie to juvie, holding grudges and kicking ass. Before Claire's accident, his inner 'bad boy' had merely bubbled to the surface from time-to-time, albeit harmlessly. After her eyes closed for what he assumed to be forever, the bubble burst.

Todd stayed behind in Westchester. He never finished high school.

"Where's Todd, Mom?"

**a/n: TO CLEAR THINGS UP... The person who called Cam will be revealed NEXT CHAPTER. Alicia and Kristen are talking to Judi. Todd is talking to Jay. Dylan is talking with her mother. And, last but certainly not least, Mystery Boy is talking to Mystery Girl. (Did u really think i would ruin the surprise?)**


	8. seven: Fun Times, Bad Boys

**chapter seven. fun times, bad boys. **

**--**

_**"Having is not so **pleasing** a thing as** wanting, **it may not be logical, but it is often true." **_

**- Unknown**

--

Cam's eyes darkened. "She - she's pregnant?"

As his striking brunette fiancee was leaning up against the marble counter top, clutching a glass of ice water from their Sub-Zero fridge, she tilted her head to the side. It was her oft-used '_What's wrong?_' face. Her cherry-tinted lips mouthed "_Who's pregnant?" _

Almost ruefully, he shook his head. "Josh, I'll have to call you back, 'kay?" Another excruciatingly long pause. "Alright. G'bye." He pressed the button to end the call, then turned to a now seriously confused Massie Block.

"Josh. His little sister, Lauren? You remember her?" Massie bobbed her head. "Yeah, well, she's pregnant, Mass. We've got to go up there and help them."

--

Kristen Gregory slurped down another cup of coffee. Her ragged fingernails - she'd taken up the habit of chomping on them during exams while she was in high school and college - gripped the Starbucks cup like it was her lifeline. Upon reaching a black garbage bin on the street outside the apartment she shared with her best friends Hannah, Lindsey and Parker, she tossed the cup away.

After the call from Judi Lyons had come, Kristen had changed into the kind of outfit the Pretty Committee might give a six or seven: a teal Juicy zip-up hoodie with a celery green ribbed tank from Target underneath, a denim miniskirt from Macy's with a frayed hem and her favourite pair of flip-flops. Kristen's shoulder-length blond hair had been sprayed with leave-in conditioner, smoothed with a fine-tooth comb and pushed back by a black ribbon posing as a headband.

The navy-eyed blonde hesitated and gritted her teeth when she came to the door of her apartment. Sigh. There were sometimes she really wished she hadn't gone and gotten herself-

"Mommy!"

Tumbling down the stairs of the loft was a five-year-old boy in child-sized MIT gear. A tall, lithe woman with gently tousled golden hair falling down her shoulders followed suit. Her hand was on the small of the kid's back, guiding him down the steep staircase.

"Michael," Kristen said gently, cupping his pale cheek with her hand. In her grip, he grinned widely, showing off the slight gap between his two front teeth. "How was your day?"

"Great, Lindsey was teaching me math. You're better at it, though." Kristen beamed at her son's words.

"Thanks, Mike." From across the room, the tall blonde pouted and crossed her arms over her chest.

In some ways, Michael Gregory was exactly like his mother. He loved learning - but he hated school, even if he was only in kindergarten. He excelled in sports and reading - but slap a math problem on his desk and his mind flitted off to better things. Mike didn't look anything like his mother, though. That was a pain. Every time she so much as glimpsed him she was reminded of his father.

Oh, God.

His father.

_What a fun memory, _Kristen thought to herself sarcastically. It had been her first time. She had been seventeen and desperate to break every one of her mother's carefully-placed rules. And he'd been oh so glad to help her.

She saw him in Michael. So much of him.

His lanky figure.

His dancing caramel eyes.

His shaggy blond hair.

--

-flashback: kristen gregory, age seventeen- 

Her shiny hair hung in a side-ponytail. She liked to think that had she still been a card-carrying GLU, Massie would've golf-clapped and given her a nine-point-oh. Or at least an eight-point-seven. She could deal with that, too.

Kristen was becoming antsy. Her Adidas short-shorts swished around her toned thighs as she jogged up and down, on the spot. She'd paired the shorts with a yellow tee from Pacsun. Her cleats, of course, rested comfortably on her size-eight feet,

"Gregory, Kristen!"

An easy smile blossom over her sharp features. She threw her hands up in the air and sprinted over to her chosen team. Blue team. Kristen had applied for the prestigious soccer camp back in May - it was now August and summer was coming to a close. She wanted to go out with a bang.

Across the wide expanse of the grassy green field, a wink came her way. She flushed pink as she identified the owner of the warm caramel-coloured eye. Derrick Harrington, Derrington for short, although after the PC disbanded, no one used that stupid name any more. Good riddance.

"Gregory!" Derrick called, cupping a hand around his lips - hoping to increase the volume of his yell. "You look different!"

Kristen rolled her eyes. The other three girls in her group - an outgoing tall girl named Lindsey Collins, a Korean girlie-girl named Hannah Lee and a brunette with the palest skin she'd ever seen, Parker Pemberly - chorused "Oooooh." The boys on their team exchanged bored looks, like, _Oh, Derrick Harrington's already picked his girl-of-the-minute. _

Kristen merely rolled her eyes. Derrington? No way, no how.

--

"Oh, Derrick..." she mumbled as he kissed his way up the side of her neck. "We really shouldn't be - I mean _really._"

"Or maybe," he said with that same-old glow in his eyes, "We really should."

--

The next morning Kristen woke up in a sleeping bag that wasn't her own - in a t-shirt that definitely wasn't her own. She tripped and stumbled her way out of the deserted cabin - Derrick, naturally, was long gone.

_Figures, _she said to herself with an eye-roll.

The shirt belonged to Derrick and was about two sizes to big. It was comfy, though. It smelled like him. Maybe they would start going out. She hadn't had a boyfriend, since - well... Claire's accident. The last boy she remembered crushing on was Derrick. Except he'd just been using her - and Dylan - to get to Massie. The one everyone wanted.

Except he wanted _her_now. He wanted Kristen Gregory - he certainly hadn't been breathing Massie Block's cursed name into her ears last night.

--

-present day: claire lyons and kristen gregory, both age twenty-two- 

Kristen gently pushed open the door to Claire's private room. She had never liked hospitals much - even if she was applying to med schools all over the country. They were so perfect, smelled like antiseptic, all the walls were white... In a way, it reminded her of Massie's iPad. Kristen muttered a lively string of curses under her breath. She just couldn't escape that amber-eyed bimbo, could she? Every time she flicked on the TV, Massie's alter ego, the teenage tennis pro going undercover as a regular girl in a small town public school. Massie was part of the ensemble cast that made up the hit show, _Game-Set-Match. _

Her face regularly adorned fashion magazines and gossip rags.

Those were the magazines that Kristen never picked up.

"Claire? It's me, Kristen," she called out timidly. For a second, she almost expected the same petite, round-cheeked girl she'd left behind to offer her some sours. Instead, a young woman who was still short, but paler and thinner than Kristen remembered rolled over on the standard hospital bed.

"Hey," she said, her voice a little sore. Claire gave a small smile, but in a flash it was history.

"How are you doing?" Kristen asked, nervously hovering over her former friend's bedside.

"Pretty good. You know," Claire's eyes hardened, "_considering._"

Kristen gulped. "Yeah. Um, you look good. Different, though."

"I know, right?" She giggle-snorted. "The last memory I have is of, well... From when I was twelve and now, look at me!" Claire fluttered her fingers in the air.

She did look different. She looked kind of heroin-chic, sort of Kate Moss but more innocent-looking. Kristen suspected that was what happened to your body after digesting only liquids for ten years. Apparently, the best diet was going into a coma. Alert the presses! _Glamour _will want to know about that one.

Kristen smiled. It was nice to see Claire again. Especially awake. She'd only come to visit Claire during her middle school years - after the ninth grade, schoolwork and soccer practice sent her into overdrive. By that time she'd given up any hope of Claire ever waking up.

But here she was. A twelve-year-old trapped in a twenty-two-year-old's body.

"It's meeeee!" a raspy woman's voice called from the threshold.

Kristen and Claire turned to see the silky hair and striking eyes of...

--

**Author's Note:  
**Dear lovely American friends,  
Do you have junior and senior kindergarten? By that I mean, when you're four you're in J.K. and five in S.K.  
Signed, a confused Canuck.


	9. eight: Mrs Harrington?

**Author's Note: **Drama, drama. I just love messing up Derrick's life. Sigh. This chapter is dedicated to SeeminglyAngelic. 'Cause she wanted crack pairings, so here's one.

**chapter eight. mrs. harrington? **

--

_**"All good is hard, all **evil** is **easy**. Dying, losing, cheating, and mediocrity are easy. Stay away from easy."**_

**- Scott Alexander**

--

"Gosh, Layne! Hi!" Claire grinned from ear-to-ear. It was like a light switch had been turned on - all of a sudden she was jovial and upbeat.

Layne shot her former BFF a matching grin. "Lovely to see you again, Claire."

_Lovely? _

She was suspicious of angst-ridden outsider Layne Abeley's choice of words but didn't question them. Lots of things had changed since her accident.

"I'll just be going now." Kristen smiled nervously, heading towards the door. "Have fun. I'll be back later."

"Okay. Seeya Kris." Claire turned her attention back to her old friend. That was when she noticed Layne's outfit: a calf-length ivory brocade coat overtop of a little black dress. Layne's now-smooth and glossy hair was tucked behind her ears, which were adorned with four-carat gold earrings. "You look…_wowie_."

"Thanks. You look 'wowie,' too."

Claire blushed, sometimes she forgot she was a twentysomething rather than a loyal, mindless, tweenage follower of Massie. "What happened? What do you do, Layne?"

"I wrote a bestselling memoir. _Reluctantly Rich. _About my life as a loser in school and my blossoming into a Kappa Kappa Kappa at uni." Layne flashed a laser-whitened smile. "You ought to check it out sometime."

--

"Oh, Derrington...!"

Still in a sweat-soaked Nike tee and soccer shorts, he turned at the trilling sound of his wife's voice. Derrick Harrington hadn't wanted to get married. But she'd been pregnant and she was gorgeous, too, so, what was he supposed to do? Even if his father was kind of a major ass, he'd still told his son that under no circumstances did he leave a girl pregnant and alone. After all, Derrick's own creation had been an accident, but he'd turned out alright.

There she was.

Gorgeous as ever.

Her pale blond hair hung in twin stubby ponytails. She was in exercise gear, too - hers courtesy of Stella McCartney for Adidas. Her face was flawless - a pert nose, full lips and not a blemish to be seen. She wore a tight, cleavage-enhancing sports bra and Capri pants that looked like they'd been painted on.

"Olivia, you look great."

She smiled sweetly and placed her manicured hand on one of his broad shoulders. "Thanks, honey pie." Annoying pet names were Olivia Ryan-Harrington's speciality.

Derrick had just come back from the gym. As far as he knew, he was the only member of the Tomahawks who went pro with the sport. For everyone else it was a hobby. For him? It was his life.

"Where's Leah?"

"Asleep," Olivia answered contently. She placed her other hand - the one not on her husband's shoulder - on the slight curve of her stomach. She was only eight weeks along. In addition to five-year-old Leah, she had a two-year-old daughter, Summer, with him.

"Good." His lips curled into something that was half-smile, half-smirk. "And Sum?"

"Don't you remember?" Olivia's Botox-aided smooth forehead creased. "She has a play date with her school friends."

Derrick shook his head. "'Course I do, Liv. I was just double-checking."

"Alright." She didn't look so sure, but she shrugged her shoulders and skipped out the door to God knows where.

--

It was late at night in California time when Olivia Ryan-Harrington's Razr rang. She effortlessly pushed her sweat-matted bangs away from her plastic-makes-perfect face and scooted off the bed. The shift in weight pushed the gold-threaded duvet of Derrick's body. He groaned and muttered something that deserved a 14-A rating.

"Y'ello?" she whispered into her phone sleepily.

"Yes, is this…" an equally tired man's voice trailed off. "Olivia Ryan?"

She nodded her head before realizing no one - save for Derrick - could see her. "Uh-huh," she added, for his benefit.

"Good. This is Jay Lyons. I'm Claire and Todd Lyons' father. You went to middle school with them?"

"Nope," she answered dopily. "Never heard of them. Please don't call this number again. Kay, thanks, bye." She clicked 'End.'

--

"Idiot," Jay told the bimbo on the phone long after she'd hung up. In front of him lay the OCD yearbook, circa 2008. His fingernail rested on the name "OLIVIA RYAN." Above the name and quote (Which, for the record, was: "'By day, I play the part in every way. Of simple, sweet, calm and collected.' - Hannah Montana.") was a picture of a stunned-looking blonde.

--

"Champagne, miss?"

Alicia nodded curtly, doubling the effect of her natural beauty by throwing in a toothy smile for the flight attendant. He was somewhat handsome - but not half as nice-looking as Luis. Cheating had never crossed her mind, not even when he was halfway across the country scouting locations or attending auditions.

"Thaaankkk youuu," she drawled as she accepted the clear glass flute of bubbly.

"Are you…visiting your husband in Westchester?" the flight attendant asked with a quirk of his eyebrow.

"That will be all, thanks," she coolly dismissed. "I prefer not to divulge the details of my life to perfect strangers."

--

Massie couldn't quit smiling at work the next day. Finally, she'd given in to Cam's constant proposals. He didn't see a reason why they couldn't get married straight after high school - or, hell, _during _high school. It wasn't like Massie was going to college or anything. When she was fifteen, she started acting professionally - mostly little parts in daytime soaps or guest appearances on the latest _Law & Order _spin-off. It wasn't until she got the script for _Game-Set-Match _that she finally committed to something.

She loved her job, but sometimes it was annoying reliving her high school life at work.

"This came in for you, Massie." Her still-nervous assistant, a fidgety woman named Ginger, handed the starlet a thick script. The title page read "_Through The Dark_." Apparently it was written, directed and co-produced by one man: Luis Martinez.

She only had a couple scenes to reshoot that day. She'd already visited the hair and makeup place where Vivi, the hair stylist, teased Massie's brunette locks into a cheerleader-esque high ponytail. Samuel, the makeup artist, had gone for the 'natural look' which made her look about ten years younger.

Not that she wanted to. Massie hated it when people assumed she was as young as her plucky character Serenity Harper.

Fresh from the wardrobe trailer was a pair of low-riding dark-wash jeans and a silky coral-coloured tank top. Massie sighed and unlocked the door to her trailer. She hopped onto the couch and started reading the script.

--

-flashback: derrick harrington, yesterday, age twenty-two-

_"You've got yourself a deal."_

_"I'll be over in twen-"_

_"Make that ten."_

__

"Fine then. Ten minutes."

Derrick ran a hand through his shaggy hair. He blew out a breath. This shouldn't be happening again. Not again, not ever. He had a wife, two kids and one more on the way. A great career. But he was never satisfied - no. Not even with Olivia who'd spent her parents' fortune on making herself perfect.

Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang. He immediately jumped up from the comfy couch and ran to answer it. A brunette with bottle green eyes and a Viktor & Rolf trench coat covering her sinful skin half-smirked at him.

"Layne."

"Derrick."

"Shall we?"

"We certainly shall."

--

-present day: dylan marvil and alicia rivera, both age twenty-two- 

Dylan Marvil raked her fingers through her tamed curls. That morning, she'd spent longer than she had since the seventh grade prepping and primping. She was, after all, going to see her mom, the always immaculately made-up Merilee Marvil. She hadn't had time to pop by the spa, though, so her acid-green manicure was still cracked.

Sigh.

Sometimes there was just no winning.

Her outfit, at least, was a sure winner: a cream-coloured leather Rick Owens biker jacket, over a simple white Banana Republic blouse, a Couture Couture pencil skirt and matching black pumps. It was classy. A pure Massie-chist outfit.

Uh-oh. Massie.

She hadn't thought about that bitch since high school. The pills, the elixirs, it made her forget what a terrible friend Massie had been.

Would the amber-eyed brunette be lurking around a manicured hedge, waiting for a moment of surprise?

Last Dylan had heard, Massie was playing some lame-ass tennis star on this stupid CW show.

"Um, excuse me?"

Dylan whipped her head around at the sound of an all-too-familiar voice. It had a slight - and probably fake - Spanish accent. "Alicia?"

"Yes," the beta agreed, "That's me."


	10. nine: Um, Awkward

**author's note: **thanks to every single person who left a review, but especially to those who've been leaving them continually. that means you, Lolgirl, emeraldeyes101, candyycane21, niajowx3, maplexsyrup, soccer-shortii, and cruseaholic.

**chapter nine. um, awkward. **

**--**

_**"It's a **weird year**." **_

**_- _George Bush**

**--**

The redhead paled at the sight of her second-most hated former friend. Alicia Rivera. Dylan was known to pick up _Us Weekly, People _or _InTouch _so she also knew that the Spanish beauty had gone and gotten herself hitched to the most famous writer/director/producer in Hollywood, Luis Martinez.

"It's great to see you again, Leesh," Dylan intoned, carefully pasting a happy smile over her shocked expression.

"Same," Alicia agreed with a grin that looked almost - no, it couldn't be - genuine. Dylan relaxed in her seat - both women were flying first-class, it was merely a coincidence they were seated side-by-side. Maybe the heat between them had diminished? It had been ten years, after all. That was a hell of a long time to hold a grudge.

"You're living in Beverly Hills, right?" Dylan inquired, cocking her head to the side and sending several straightened locks of red hair tumbling down her elegant, swan-like neck.

"Yes," Alicia confirmed primly, her tanned hands clasped in her lap. "As are you?"

"Uh-huh." She grinned widely and couldn't resist adding, "Why are you acting like a fricking thirty-two-year-old?"

Alicia rolled her wide brown eyes. "No reason. Oh, wait." She dramatically brought a finger to her chin. "I know. The same reason you're still acting like a fifteen-year-old."

Dylan's eyes rolled as well. "Good to know the ole' Rivers spunk is still there," she chuckled.

"It's River_-uh_!"

Both girls cackled. Maybe things weren't so bad. "Whatever," Dylan said between spurts of laughter.

"Hey, Dyl?" Alicia asked. "Can you believe that Claire's _awake?_"

"She's whaaat?!"

--

With a dramatic sigh, Massie gulped as she closed the thick stack of papers that were held together by black binding. Wow. For a horror movie, _Through The Dark _was deep. And, she, a glorified teen starlet had been offered a role in it! That was just…too amazing to pass up.

From inside the cobalt blue Maxi Mabel shoulder bag made by Mulberry she'd gotten in this year's swag bag at the _Teen Choice Awards _- where she'd scored several nominations, but no awards, as had her show - she produced a top-of-the-line BlackBerry with more features than she could name, let alone _use. _

"Cammmmm…." she dragged out her fiancé's name, giving it an extra five syllables. "What's up?

She could almost feel his smile through the phone. "Not much," he replied over the sounds of people arguing. "Just typical work stuff."

"Aw." Massie bit her lip, girlishly flushing at the sound of her soon-to-be-(OMG)husband's voice. "How sweet. My fiancé, the structural engineer is workin' hard for the money." She giggled, as did he.

"So, Mass. Your only reason for calling can't have been to annoy me."

Offended, her striking - and now infamous - amber eyes widened. "How rude," she sniffed. "That may be true, but it doesn't mean I didn't want to hear how your day was going. The truth is-" She hesitated and closed her mouth again.

"Oh, dear God." He sounded half-excited and half-terrified. "You're not pregnant, are you?"

"Holy shit, no." She pouted. Why wouldn't he let her finish? "Are you?"

"Uh." Cam chuckled. "No."

"Just let me finish, okay!" After he promised to stop interrupting, she finally blurted out, "I just read the most amazing script. Seriously. I think this might be exactly what I need to prove that I'm a serious actress."

--

Claire and Layne had been gabbing, chatting, joking and teasing for almost two hours and forty-two minutes. After all, they did have a lot of things to catch up on. Every once in a blue moon, chubby-cheeked, suntanned Judi would stroll in through the door to Claire's private room and bring food, drink, magazines and newspapers. She had yet to answer her daughter's inquiry about Todd. At the time, Judi had shrugged off the question with a harsh-toned, "I have to go. We'll talk discuss this later." Still, she would have to answer eventually…

The blonde half of the friendly duo was tittering at the punch line to Layne's tale about life as a socialite in the Upper East Side. Apparently, the former oatmeal-lover had transformed herself into a Blair Waldorf of sorts and was living out her every desire in the Abeley penthouse.

It almost pained Claire to hear Layne's quips about bratty salespeople at designer boutiques or fellow hoity-toity authors or even Layne's own enigmatic agent, a fiery-haired woman named Andie.

"I just-" Claire shook her head. She twisted and turned under the thin cotton sheets - even the best hospital in upstate New York wasn't willing to fork over the money for 600-thread-count sheets for a comatose patient. "Can't believe it. You're so…"

"Gorgeous, sexy, brilliant, wealthy, successful, charming?" The brunette listed, counting off each trait on her manicured fingers.

"Those, too," Claire giggled. "But I was going to say…you're just like Massie."

--

Marcus 'Vader' Plovert clutched his doting wife's hand. In return, she offered a distant smile. This couldn't be happening. Vader pulled at the waistband of his sleek black pleated pants; a vintage leather belt kept them from falling down, but they still threatened to drop below his slim hips. The brunette whom he got the honour of calling "love" or "angel face," brushed the side of her thumb against his cheek. She, too, wore all black - her choice of outfit was a Zac Posen knee-length sheath.

"It's alright," she cooed into his neck. He breathed in the familiar scent of her - that fucking expensive Juicy Couture shampoo that smelled like summer fruit and wild flowers combined with her regular perfume, a clean, fresh fragrance from Lacoste and laundry detergent.

"Except it's not; my brother - he - he's dead. Gone forever."

"I know," Saylene replied and removed her hand from his so she could wrap her freckled arms around his neck.

The forgotten couple of private school graduates watched in silence as Chris Plovert and his casket was lowered into the Westchester ground.

--

Kristen maneuvered the freshly-waxed halls of Octavian Country Day School like she was walking through a pit of fire and coals. _That might be preferable, _she bitterly thought. All around her, mini-Massies, Alicias, Dylans, Kristens, and - weirdly - even a few glassy-eyed, sneaker-clad Claires huddled in their tight-knit cliques. Like a bad episode of _Game-Set-Match, _flashbacks flooded her already jam-packed brain.

Ten years ago, she was these girls. She was the girl texting on her iPhone. She was the pin-thin kid nervously triple-checking her outfit. She was the I'm-so-cool-aren't-I? brunette snorting loudly - too loudly - at a pop-culture reference.

It was late August, but all the students were having an orientation day.

Kristen's heart sank. What was she doing here?

She swiftly dodged the humongous shoulder bag of a primped and polished seventh-grader. "Ugh," Kristen muttered.

Once she came to the farthest door on the first floor, she hesitantly knocked against the undoubtedly pricey door made of authentic Brazilian rosewood - as all the desks were.

"C'min!" a voice called loudly.

The blonde stepped inside, flip-flop first. "Hello?"

"Kristen Gregory." A frumpy woman in designer penny loafers positively beamed as the two shook hands. "I'm Elise, I presume you're here for the guidance counsellor position?"

"Yes, I am."


	11. ten: The Chronicles of Joshua Hotz

**author's note: **this includes some dialogue/lines from "invasion of the boy snatchers." it does not belong to me, but rather lisi harrison.

**chapter ten. the chronicles of joshua hotz. **

**--**

_**"Gravitation is not responsible for people **falling **in **love."_

_- _**Albert Einstein **

**--**

-present day: layne abeley and claire lyons, both age twenty-two-

"Claire," Layne said, tugging a loose tendril of dark hair back into its proper place. "I don't exactly know how to say this but - no one's the same anymore, girlie." She was now snuggled up beside the best friend she hadn't seen in ten years. Being with innocent, naïve, frozen-in-time Claire made her feel young and careless again.

Blue eyes welling up, the pale girl in the too-big hospital gown flipped to her other side, facing away from the girl who once proudly displayed her Thermos of oatmeal for all to see. "I don't understand."

"'Course you don't, honey." Layne brushed some hair away from Claire's face. "It's alright, everything will turn out okay."

Another knock on the door made Claire turn.

Judi?

Jay?

Could it finally be Todd?

"Come in."

The tall, Amazon-pretty brunette known as Layne Abeley hopped off Claire's bed and slid her round-toed pumps back on her size-six feet.

The young man who walked in wasn't a familiar face. He had a natural tan to his skin and kept his dark, thick hair close-cropped, almost military-style. A stiff and obviously brand spankin' new baseball cap was twisted around his long, piano player fingers. He was formally dressed in a pinstriped suit of navy, with a crisp white shirt - collar undone - and a loosely-knotted burgundy tie.

"You don't know me," he began nervously, eyeing Layne suspiciously, "but my name's Josh. I've heard a lot about you." He breathed deeply, looked into Claire's eyes - how blue they were - for the first time. "I transferred to Briarwood from Hotchkiss just after you…er, _left._"

Claire giggled. "Well, hellooo there, Josh. I'm Claire." A line of frustration wrinkled her forehead. "But I guess - since you're visiting me and all - you already knew that?"

He nodded. "I did - I do." Josh took a step forward, his Italian leather loafers leaving mud tracks on the marble tiling.

Looking down at the navy blue NYY cap he held in his hands, he carefully handed it to the girl lying in the bed. She smiled and accepted it with a quiet, mumbled thanks.

Josh flushed a bright shade of scarlet when he noticed the lavish bouquets of flowers, Mylar balloons, Hallmark cards, and teddy bears in bow ties. His gift seemed so lame in comparison.

Noticing him, she smiled again. "Oh, they're beautiful…" She paused, then quickly added, "Josh."

"Thanks." Just as slowly, he added her name, "Claire," to the end.

-flashback: josh hotz, age thirteen- 

The party was in full-swing. After attending a boys-only skate camp with the only mattered of the Briarwood Tomahawks who mattered lately, Josh had decided to transfer schools. The fact that he'd been expelled from his old boarding school, Hotchkiss, for pulling the fire alarm, was just icing on the cake.

The brunet boy pinched the visor part of his Yankees cap uncertainly. He looked around for familiar faces.

Where was that Brooding Pretty Boy? Cam?

What about the Alpha Dog, Blondie? Or, um, Dirk? Derek?

Of course, there was Mister Slut. The one who spent cabin clean-up scrolling through his photo log of under-the-skirt shots? Hemp?

Last but not least, there was Broken Ankle, Christopher. Called Plovert. Was he here?

Josh didn't even bother to think about Chris' brother. The one who always faded into the background. What was his name, anyway? When asked, Alpha Dog had answered, "Vader, I think." That couldn't be right, could it?

Almost instantly, he spotted the group of casually-dressed boys lounging on the bottom of the Rivera family's staircase. He ducked to pass a particularly tall brunette in a preppy, polka-dot sweater done up to her neck. He muttered, "'Scuse me," when he elbowed a bald patriarch in the gut.

And then he was there.

"Hotz, buddy!" Alpha Dog greeted, looking up only momentarily from his chrome PSP.

Broken Ankle snickered and then chimed in, "So you weren't bluffin'. You really did get your ass kicked out of boarding school."

Josh nodded. "Yeah-huh."

One look over his shoulder. Josh spotted a brunette waitress-type carrying a platter of fun-sized appetizers. She wore a green chiffon dress that was covered enough cleavage to be deemed decent, but bared just enough leg not for her not to be hurled insults along the lines of "uptight prude," or "cold-hearted bitch."

"Who's that?"

Broody answered with a harsh stare. It was quite a freaky effect - what with his mismatching eyes and all. "That's Massie Block. Stay away from her."

So Broody had himself a girlfriend!

_A hot one, _he mentally added, watching as she threw her head back and laughed at something a redhead said.

He couldn't help notice that there was some tension between the group of well-dressed girls. They all stood in a circle, but Miss Spain stuck close to Massie - who would always be 'Hot Brunette' in his mind. Redhead and the boy-girl hybrid in the fedora (Hattie) seemed almost upset about something. What there was to be upset about, Josh had no clue. It was an awesome party.

A tall, model-beautiful-if-only-she-wasn't-so-old woman in a paisley dress with a long peacock feather necklace barked, "Can I have your attention, please?" from the top of the spiral staircase. Everyone turned to gawk at a) her gorgeous self - she was a total MILF - and b) her horrible outfit.

In a thick Spanish accent, she continued, "My husband, Len, and I would like to welcome you all into our home. You know we are always looking for an excuse to get together with friends." A few dorky parents erupted into cheers, but most of the school-aged tweens and teens simply rolled their eyes. "And tonight's excuse is a very beautiful one named Nina."

Louder applause.

"My niece has come all the way from Spain to spend the semester with us. So please raise your glasses and help me welcome Nina Callas to Westchester." The woman, a former model known as Nadia Rivera, raised her glass flute of amber-coloured champagne into the air. "_Complimentar, _Nina!"

After the dramatic build-up, one would expect a girl worthy of Victoria's Secret wings. Instead, a too-tall, too-thin girl with silver braces, frizzed-out hair and a boring black shift dress appeared beside Nadia.

The clapping was considerably less.

Several of the bolder guests even laughed out loud.

--

"Massie," Josh whispered as he grasped the pink elbow of Broody's Girl.

There was no around - nothing but the stone wall of OCD to keep them company.

She hissed, baring her perfect white teeth. "What is it, new boy?"

He gulped.

Her amber eyes rolled. "Can you puh-leeze tell me why you're stalking me _buh-fore _I shrivel up and die?"

Josh nodded vehemently.

"Go out with me?"

"No," she said evenly. "Now." Broody's Girl straightened her already amazing posture. "I'm just going to pretend this little _'rendez-vous' _never occurred because Cam would chew your head off if he new."

She walked away.

--

That Sunday - the Sunday after dowdy Nina came to town and Massie turned him down - Josh did a stupid thing. Instead of giving up his schoolboy crush, he followed Massie's Sigerson Morrison-clad feet all the way to a private hospital in Westchester. She walked along the road that lead to Briarwood - without her usual entourage or even her driver, Isaac.

Staying at a safe distance behind, Josh followed her up to room seven on the second floor - she took the elevator, he took the stairs. That was when he first saw Claire Lyons - her blond hair hanging in her face, eyes closed. She looked so peaceful. And so different from shallow, bitchy Massie Block.

She looked perfect.

"New boy?" asked the astonished brunette when she caught him at the door, staring. "What are you doing here?"

"Following you."

After that, Massie's Sunday afternoons were never spent alone. Josh came with as she regaled him with stories about Claire - pre-accident, of course. It wasn't until years later, when they were in high school and Josh was still alone, that he realized he'd fallen in love with a girl he'd never spoken to. To a girl he'd never seen awake except in photographs.

To a girl who might never wake up.

--

-present day: josh hotz, claire lyons, layne abeley, all age twenty-two- 

"Um." The flowers were yellow ones. Claire was sure that was symbolic for something sweet and sentimental. What, she had no idea. Friendship, she guessed. Not that this 'Josh' character was really her friend. She didn't even know him. "Thanks, again," she said lamely.

"No prob." He stuffed his hands into the deep pockets of his knife-pleat dress pants - very Barack Obama-style. "I'm sure this is really weird to hear, but, Claire... I'm so glad you woke up."

"I am, too."


	12. eleven: Dreams and Nightmares

**author's note:** _oy vey._ this is getting bigger than i ever expected it would. um, review, pretty please? i usually reply to them. _the reviews for last chapter were awesometastic. love you guys! _

**warning: **really brief, really minor cursing.

**chapter eleven. dreams and nightmares. **

**-- **

_**"Who's to say that **dreams** and** nightmares **aren't as real as the here and now?" **_

**_- _John Lennon **

**-- **

Not long after Josh's arrival, Claire's eyes started to flicker shut. It was late, he knew. Especially for a girl who had the mental capacity of a twelve-year-old. It was strange how he felt for her. It was like a paper bag inside of his heart had filled with air and grew exponentially. And by "air," he meant Claire Lyons.

Once the vision with the white-blond hair had drifted into a sleep - he could see her eyes moving under her eyelids and idly wondered what she was dreaming about. What was there left to dream about after you'd been dreaming for ten years?

Layne was somewhere behind him. She sat in a chair, leafing through _Marie Claire_. An article she'd written was published in it. "Loving Your Looks," by Layne Abeley. It was really kind of superficial. After praising the "natural beauty" that was all the rage on the runway currently, she went on to list her favourite thousand-dollar skin products.

"Is this as bizarre for me as it is for you?" Layne quipped. Her reverse-manicured fingernail marked her place in the magazine.

Before he had time to respond, she'd added, "I guess it's even weirder. I mean, you're in love with a girl who's only worries are if she looks fat and if the most popular guy in school knows she exists." The Amazon beauty's bottle green eyes searched his. "She's a glorified teenage girl, Josh. She doesn't care about you."

The words felt like daggers. "And she cares about you? You're not the same Layne she left behind."

The brunette's tone softened. "I'm glad. I would never go back to being the loser."

In mere seconds, her stunning green eyes turned into slits. "You may leave now," she cooly dismissed. With a curt nod and one last meanigful look at the sleeping beauty tucked underneath scratchy blankets, he did as told.

--

Derrick, soccer coach extraordinaire and reluctant father of two, ran a lazy hand through his dishevelled hair as he waited for Leah, five, and Summer, two, to finish day camp. They both went to a co-ed soccer camp in the summertime.

Derrick's own smirking face was pasted on the camp's official brochure, as well as a quote from him ("My daughters love it here, yours will, too!"). It was strange how people acted once a few of your trainees joined the American Olympic soccer team.

There they were.

His girls, his only children.

The only people he could love unconditionally without pain or consequence.

Both girls looked tired. For toddlers, Leah and Summer Harrington were always bizarrely quiet. From birth, they'd been instructed by their mother, Olivia, not to be too loud. Especially not after a Botox treatment - stress was not good for the skin.

They were visual doubles of him, with Olivia-esque twists thrown in every now and then.

Leah's hair was shaggy and blond, as was Summer's. The younger of the two wore her hair in a swingy bob, the elder in long ringlets. Leah had Derrick's sparkling caramel eyes, framed by Olivia's naturally long eyelashes. Summer had Olivia's innocent blue orbs. Both girls spent so much time outside that they were tan year-round. It helped that they lived in California, land of the sun, too, Derrick supposed.

"Daddy," Leah called out. Her defeated walk turned into an upbeat skip. Little Summer trudged along behind, her pillowy lips turned into a pout.

"Hi," Summer greeted, when the young blondes caught up with their father. He scooped up Summer into his arms, clutching her under the arms with one hand. His other hand held Leah's.

"Guess who called Daddy today?"

"Grampa?" Summer guessed pathetically. Neither girl had a close relationship with Derrick Harrington, Sr. In fact, their relationship largely consisted of trips to FAO Schwarz when they visited him in NY's Upper East Side during the holidays. Derrick Jr. didn't want his father to be closely involved with his children and Derrick Sr. wasn't big on committing to anything that couldn't turn a profit.

"Nope." He smiled down at her. "An old friend of mine. Cam Fisher."

"Uncle Cammie?" Leah questioned, her brown eyes widening. Although they'd never met the oft-mentioned Auntie Mass, they often visited Uncle Cammie whilst in New York.

"Yeah-huh." He brushed an eyelash off Summer's smooth cheek. "We're going to visit him, maybe even see the elusive Aunt Massie. Make a wish, Summ." She blew the pale eyelash off his palm.

"What's 'esluive' mean?" Leah wondered aloud.

-flashback: yesterday; massie block, age twenty-two- 

Massie shot out of bed. Her chest heaved up and down. Breathlessly, she smoothed her hand over her forehead. Her striking amber eyes darted around the wide expanse of the living room. The TV blared a late-night infomercial. She winced at the loud sound and bright colours. Ouch. She began to slowly massage her temple. She felt a major migraine coming on...

The nightmares had started not long after she'd read that script. Martinez' '_Through The Dark._' There was something undeniable that took it from being categorized as a simple horror flick to a thriller that toyed with your deepest fears.

Head pounding, she called out uselessly for her fiance, Cam. No response. Either he was dead asleep or...

Her eyes glanced past the delicate timepiece she still wore. About one o'clock. He could still be in his office at work. The only problem with his well-paying job as a structural engineer was that early mornings and late nights came as a package deal. That was part of the reason why his bosses, co-workers and clients adored him, though. Cam wasn't put off by a 'little' extra work if it meant getting the job done and getting it right.

Massie pushed herself off the couch, kicking a cashmere throw in the process. There it was. Her pale purple cell phone, a limited-edition Motorola, called out to her. '_Massie...! Use me...!_' Who was she to say no?

She searched through her long list of contacts before stumbling over the right name. ALICIA.

She pressed the call button, not even bothering to calculate the time difference between LA and New York.

One ring. Two rings... Three. _Four._ The call went straight to Alicia's answering machine. "_Hello, beautiful people!_" The overzealous voice of a newly-wedded Alicia chirped. "_This is Alicia R- Martinez. I'm not here right now..."_ Girlish giggles. "_But leave a message and I'll call you back as soon as I can!" _

"It's me," she rasped after the beep. "Call me back. Now."

Enough was enough. Massie pulled on a pair of Chip & Peppers, slid her arms into a fleecy Hollister hoodie. She set her jaw. Time to go.

--

After programming Alicia's new cellie number into her iPhone 3G, Dylan Marvil swaggered over to the limo service line. Most of the people in front of her were white men in their mid-thirties. All of them wore headsets and charcoal, navy, or black suits. Dylan felt out of place in her leopard print thermal top, low-riding black slacks and white Tory Burch flats.

She scooped her red hair into the spare Rachel Bilson-esque beanie she always kept in her satchel.

There.

Much better.

Five or so people were in front of her. The only woman in the line stood in front of Dylan, tall and imposing. She had hair from a Pantene commercial - chocolate brown, just past the shoulders and impossibly glossy. Instead of the usual Bluetooth, a purple handheld device (some kind of Sidekick?) was grasped in her hands. In fact, upon closer - yet subtle - inspection, Dylan noticed other splashes of the queen's colour.

A magenta swirl-patterned headband. Several purple bangles. A purple Mulberry.

It reminded her of someone.

A certain purple-ah-doring someone.

"Mah-ssie Block?"

The purple-wearing woman turned and wrinkled her third-job-makes-perfect nose. "Nuh-oo. My name is Aim-"

"She's just some impostor," a regal voice sniffed from somewhere behind Dylan. "I'm the real Massie."

And so she was.

-

"Alicia, darling," Nadia Rivera cooed at her only child and precious daughter. "Is that a little extra weight around the midsection?" Dramatically, the former Milan-based model threw a delicate hand against her warm forehead. "I must be dreaming. You aren't finally..." She lowered her voice to a lower, ominous tone that reminded Alicia of the BOCD High production of _Macbeth. "With child?"_

"No." She near dropped her metallic hobo bag. "My life isn't some nursery rhyme, Mother, you know! '_First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Alicia with a baby carriage...'"_

Suddenly very serious, Nadia brushed her daughter's cheek affectionately. "Whoever said anything about love and marriage going together was a fool. You don't need to be in love to have a relationship." Her light stroke turned into a rough grasp then. "I haven't loved your father since you were a child, but I've stayed with him. I'm no idiot. He gave me everything I needed..." She paused. "And took away the only thing I ever wanted."

Alicia guessed, "Modelling?"

Nadia nodded sagely. "That's right, dear." She continued, ushering the sweet twenty-two-year-old into her not-so-humble abode. "Don't you ever let Luis tell you what you can and cannot do. If you need to, agree to open marriage like Len and I did." A serene smile crossed her undeniably gorgeous face. "Maybe you'll even get a little... - _What do they call it? - _tail from that sexy pool boy of yours."

"Ew!" The younger of the two Rivera women nearly shrieked. She trotted off into the luxurious kitchen, hollering over her shoulder at the woman who was now dissolving into giggles, "You're horrible, Mom!"

"Dean doesn't seem to think so..."

"Gross! Our driver?"


	13. twelve: The Bridge

**author's note: **ONE HUNDRED (and some odd) REVIEWS! Purple bendy straws for everyone! (I love you if you get that in-joke.)

**chapter twelve. the fricking brooklyn bridge. **

**--**

_**"I **demolish** my bridges behind me - then there is no **choice** but forward." **_

**_- _Fridtjof Nansen**

**_--_**

Massie enveloped Dylan in a frosty hug. Dylan accepted it, her tawny arms limp at her sides. Sensing the redhead's discomfort, she pulled away. Lips pursed, Massie gave a tight smile. She took Dylan's hand in her own.

_WTF? _

Dylan's Anastasia-sculpted eyebrows dipped. "What are you doing?" she half-screeched, trying to pull her hand away. It failed. She'd forgotten over the years - Massie's grip was the stuff of legends.

From her incredibly not-out-until-2012 handbag, the icy brunette produced a Montblanc. She neatly printed, in profession block lettering, "M. Block." Underneath her first initial and surname, she wrote a long-distance number. Dylan searched the recesses of her mind for the state belonging to the unfamiliar area code.

"You live in California?"

She nodded crisply, her shoulder-length bob swinging about her striking face. With that, she stalked away, throwing a casual, "Call me sometime," over her slim shoulder.

Dylan Marvil was rooted in place. In the middle of a busy airport.

A man in a long black coat elbowed her, before shuffling off quickly.

"Hey!" the redhead called after him. "That's gonna leave a bruise!"

He didn't seem to care about her well being very much.

--

Cam approached Massie confidently, he held a plain cup of Joe for himself and a skinny latte from Starbucks for his fiancée. She thanked him with a breezy, far-off smile. They passed boutique after boutique as they strolled, hand-in-hand, through the state-of-the-art airport.

"Kendra doesn't know we're coming," Massie said. Cam stiffened at the sound of his soon-to-be mother-in-law's name. She definitely was not one to hold signs proclaiming "CAM & MASSIE 4EVA" outside of the _Letterman_ or _Ellen_ studios. In fact, if she was carrying any sign it would've been handcrafted by Miuicci Prada in a palette of neutral tones. The words most definitely would have been something along the lines of: "FREE MY BELOVED ONLY CHILD FROM THE PERILOUS HELL THAT IS THE ENTERTAINMENT BUSINESS."

If Cam had been Derrick he would've ranted about how "You had so much time!" and "Why can't you confront the woman who shot you out of her birth canal twenty-two years ago?" Of course, Cam Fisher was no Derrick Harrington. This was evident in his hair, his eyes and his inherent absence of multiple love children.

"No problem." He turned to face her, pausing in front of an open-fronted store where a smiling woman was hawking mandarin orange-scented hand soaps. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

"Kendra Block is the fricking Brooklyn Bridge," Massie mumbled, but chose to drop the topic. It felt so good to have Cam's fingers intertwined in her own and the engagement ring that had once belong to his now-deceased mother sparkling from her ring finger.

"I know." Cam breathed into her strawberry-scented hair. "Sweetie, believe me, I know."

--

Olivia began to pace. She was aware that her new Loubs would scratch the Brazilian rosewood flooring, but she didn't care. Her daughters - her husband, the love of her life - were missing.

She held onto her mobile like it was her lifeline. "_Yes, Derry_," she used a pet name she knew he absolutely loathed, "This is your wife calling... Again. Please just - Just call back, okay? Let me know that Summer and Leah are alright, will you? Derrick Harrington, why the hell did I agree to marry you?!"

--

Derrick's private jet - paid for by one of the more high-profile soccer players he coached - flew over the clouded sky. A bird here, a drop of rain there, a patch of sun here. The scene was almost a double of one in a BOCD auditorium, years ago. Two blondes were battling each other to sit on his lap. His words were the same then as they were now, "There, there." He stroked Summer's corn silk-coloured ringlets. "There's enough room on my lap for two."

"I can't wait to see Auntie Massie," Leah proclaimed, setting her head on Derrick's chest.

"Me neither!" Summer chimed in. "Is she weally pretty as you always say?"

Their father harrumphed. "I don't always say she's pretty."

"Yes, you do!" Leah argued, half-heartedly slapping his knee with her sticky hand. "When that show comes on the twelevision you always say 'God, she's so pwetty!'"

"Nuh-uh. And don't say 'God,' that way."

"YEAH-HUH!" Summer and Leah chorused.

--

Nadia Rivera reached out to brush her daughter's stomach. "You're pregnant, aren't you?"

Eyes wide, Nadia's only daughter removed the offending hand from it's position over her well-sculpted abs.

"No. Way."

Nadia sighed. "After all I've given you... Is it too much to ask for to have a couple infants born before I pass over to the great modelling agency in the sky? Is it, Alicia?" Her thick Spanish accent jumbled up the words, but Alicia caught the just of it.

"Mom," she intoned, her 'STFU' look firmly in place, "Drop it."

--

Vader and Saylene watched their three-year-old daughter, an freckle-faced brunette named Brianna, read a Barney book about farm animals. They observed how her tiny fingers clutched the spine like it was her lifeline, how her forehead creased when she came upon a word she didn't know but was too proud to ask what it meant, how she giggled quietly when she came to the punchline on the last page.

"Momma? What's wrong?"

Saylene smiled so hard and so genuinely she swore her face would fall off.

Vader slipped in an answer for her, "Right now? Nothing."


End file.
